Am I Pretty?
by LucyLives
Summary: Lucy, standing in front of a mirror, wondering: is she pretty? No flames. First attempt at one-shot POV, so please review.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Elfen Lied, but if I did, I would probably be dead by now.**

I stand in front of a mirror.

It's long and rectangular, and it hangs in the room that I assume is Kouta's, judging from it's messy state and the various amounts of boxers and striped polos that there are scattered around me. Of course, I am only guessing: only this "Nyu" side of my mind that everyone has been talking about knows things about Kouta's current life; I know nothing. I have come here to try and discover something that has been nagging at my mind- when I have control of it, that is- for quite some time now.

I think of Mayu. I picture her small, sad little face and her large brown eyes that always appear to be on the verge of tearing up. I see the baggy, yellow sweatshirt that she wears almost consistently, and the way that it reveals long, pale, pretty legs- they are legs that are far too shapely for a girl of her age. I suspect that men will flock to her one day, and perhaps they already are: that tall soldier that resides on the beach, constantly in search of me seems to have become rather protective of her. Yet there is an aura of fear about her, not innocence. I look into those large brown eyes of hers and I see visions reflecting there of events in her past that should never happen to so young of a girl: events between a grown man and a child. She is that child. I do not hate Mayu; I feel pity for Mayu. If I was to tolerate any human apart from Kouta, it would be her: she has been through hardships as have I, and I believe that she deserves happiness, perhaps more than any other human. Also, Mayu is not beautiful. She is sweet and soft and mildly pretty, but she is not beautiful.

I then think of Nana; Nana, with her pretty crimson eyes and sweet smile. She is a soft, bumbling thing, yet is no pushover, I believe: she revealed that in our battle among the gravestones. She wears a childlike palate that is not entirely deceitful, for she is like a young girl still in many aspects. Yet she is a woman as well, in ways that I can have no way of understanding: I see this in the look in her eyes when she sees me. She senses something; she senses that I am not Nyu, and the thing smolders in her irises when she reaches this realization intrigues me. Nana is not a stupid girl. In fact, I believe that she is rather intelligent and reasonably pretty, and there are several men out there (perhaps including that monster Kuruma) that find that ultimately desirable. However, Nana is no real problem to me as Kouta has shown no interest in her whatsoever.

Yuka is a different story.

I think, for a moment, of Yuka. I think of her soft, shorn chestnut hair, her large brown eyes, and her pretty face, and something burns within me, for I am also thinking that Kouta must see this beauty. I would love to be able to stand over a helpless, bleeding Yuka, and to allow my beautiful, invisible limbs to then show her the power that hatred and jealousy can wreak upon those who taunt it. I would start with her fingers, long and slender as they are: I would slowly tear them out one by one, and adored every moment of it. I would then move onto her arms, I believe. I would break these first, then would rip them cleanly out of her sockets as I am accustomed to doing. Perhaps I would also do the same to her legs if I felt as if I was being too merciful. And then, at long, long last, I would move to her head, which I would tear out at the neck and leave where it could never be found.

But I cannot, for sake of Kouta. What would happen to him? How unhappy would he be? I wish with all of my being that the loss of the stupid girl would not maim his pure heart, yet in my own twisted, blackened heart I know that it would. I cannot bear to see tears invade those handsome blue eyes as they had ten years ago while on the train. That is the one thing that even the most warped section of my being would not have the capacity to behold.

Thus, I can only stand here now, and wonder about the question that has come to my mind often lately: am I pretty?

I look up into the mirror, and see a pale, thin face staring back at me; I see almond-shaped crimson eyes that conceal dark, bloodstained secrets. My hair is long, full, and rushes down my back in a pink-shaded wave, yet it does not seem to amount to much in comparison to Yuka's perfectly trimmed schoolgirl style. My body is not a bad thing to look at, I believe. I am rounded where it is attractive, and thin where it is mandatory, but I then think of Yuka with her perfectly curvaceous form; all at once, my pretty body is zeroed out. I see in my reflection that I am clad in a ragged navy shorts and loose, stained white tank top, both of which are most likely rejections from Yuka's prized wardrobe; I picture her consistency to dress in tight, flattering sundresses that exemplify her large breasts, especially while Kouta is present. For a moment, my eyes are drawn to the pinpricks on my own chest, but I tear my eyes away before I can look any longer.

It is no wonder that Kouta cares more for Yuka's company- I am not attractive enough to even be seen with such a handsome boy as Kouta. I feel something hot and fast pressing up against the backs of my eyes, but I am learned in the way of resisting it; I fight back, perhaps with more of a struggle than I had been anticipating. A single, burning droplet escapes from my eye, releasing a flood of similar drops, and I find, much to my horror, that I am incapable to preventing it. This is one situation that my vectors won't be able to fish me out of. I struggle to contain my breathing, but the breath only catches in my chest, causing a painful jolt; for some odd reason I also begin to hiccup like I have not done cinch I was a young child.

As I stand there, sobbing and hating myself for being so weak and so ugly, the door to my left opens, and who should stand there but the very last person that I should want to see me in this state: Kouta stands there holding a large, empty laundry hamper that is clearly for all of his strewn clothes. I immediately turn away from him, thus the clatter I hear startles me as I don't know what could have caused it.

After I feel Kouta's arms go around me, I realize that it was the hamper: he had dropped it and rushed over to me. He holds me tightly to him, and rocks me back and forth; for once, my entire mind is in full agreement on how to respond. I allow the tears to flow as they will, I clutch at the back of his shirt, and sob into his shoulder as if I will get no other chance to do so again. The feeling of weakness is overpowered completely by the feeling of **right**: his body clicks so perfectly with mine, his arms are so gentle, and he is so warm...sweet Kouta, embracing such an atrocious female, letting her wet up his shirt with tears of self-pity.

"Nyu," he murmurs this, and something kindles within me at the way that he says the name of my infantile "good side", "what's wrong?"

Ah, Kouta. Where shall I begin, then? Everything is wrong with the world, Kouta; everything, that is, except for you. May you remain as untouched by worldly things for all eternity, sweet, sweet, Kouta. I look up into large, blue eyes that stare at me with concern and genuine care, and my words tumble out of my mouth before I have the ability to prevent them from doing so. "Kouta, am I pretty?"

He looks taken aback for a moment, and then he smiles at me- it is a gentle, mocking smile that I have seen on the faces of boys as they gaze at girls they are fond of. "No, Nyu." He brushes a stray hair that has fallen over my forehead. "You're not pretty. You're **very **pretty."

As he embraces me again, all is right with the world in a split second, and I could care far less about the future.

Because I am very pretty.


End file.
